


On the Market

by NattyLineInUmbrellas (BelleVictoire)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And Greg thinks that's hot, Blind Date, Dating, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft's Meddling, Mystrade Valentines Calendar 2018, Online Dating, Pining, Sherlock is a shit, Speed Dating, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-17 09:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13656396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleVictoire/pseuds/NattyLineInUmbrellas
Summary: Or five times Greg failed at dating and one time he really, really didn't.With another lonely Valentine's Day looming, Greg Lestrade decides it’s time to get back in the dating game.  He’s out of practice, though, and even with Sally acting as wingman things are not going smoothly.   But is it just bad luck, or does someone perhaps have a vested interest in keeping the detective single...





	1. Five Weeks ‘till Valentine's Day

**Author's Note:**

> Big shout out to the fabulous @Mottlemoth for all her services to fandom, not least organizing this Mystrade love-in. Apologies in advance for any typos, oddities of punctuation, etc. as not only am I sans-beta, but I had to write most of this on a non-English keyboard - NOT FUN. Happy belated Valentine's Day, everyone!

“So I’m thinking of getting back out there,” Greg commented to Sally around a bite of cheese and pickle.  She’d knocked on the door of his office at half twelve with their usual lunch order and he’d been more than happy to set aside his paperwork backlog for a sarnie and a bit of a chat.

“What, you mean dating?”

“Yeah.  It’s been a while now since Alice and I split; it feels like it’s time.  I don’t want to spend another Valentine’s day alone, you know?”

“Good on you, Sir,” Sally raised her Coke in salute.  “There’s got to be at least a few desperate women out there who would put up with a crotchety old grump like you.” The scrunched up napkin Greg launched at her went wide and she laughed.

“Less of the old, ta.  I’m like a fine French wine - better with age.”

“Whatever you say, Sir.  Have someone in mind?”

“Not exactly,” Greg admitted, cagey.  “I mean, there is someone, but it’s been so long.  I don’t want to fuck things up just because I’m rusty.  I haven’t been on a date in nearly two decades, Sal. I was pretty hot stuff back then, but it was the 90’s.  We’d only just discovered texting!”

Sally rolled her eyes. “It’s not that different, Boss.”

“Yeah, but what about all of the sexting and the snapping and the swiping right.  Or is it left? Fuck, I don’t even know which way to swipe!”

“Relax,” Sally said, holding up a hand to halt her now slightly panicked DI.  “Running before walking, yeah? If you really feel you need to ease yourself back into dating before getting serious with someone, then fine.  I’ll help.”

“Sally, you’re a star.  I would kiss you if it weren’t contrary to the sexual harassment policy.”

“And right there you’re already doing better than 78% of the guys I’ve dated.  Seriously, Boss, there’s no great mystery to online dating.  It’s just like chatting someone up in a bar, only over email and with the guarantee that they’re on the pull, too.”

“So where does the swiping come in?”

“No swiping.  Baby steps.”

Greg nodded. “Baby steps.”

“Give me your mobile,” Sally commanded, holding out her hand.  Greg obliged and she set to work, downloading one of the more prosaic dating apps and putting her hard won personal experience to use setting up a profile.  “I’ll give you a quick tutorial,” she said, moving her chair around to the other side of the desk next to Greg. “You can click on this tab to answer quiz questions to better pinpoint your matches, and you can scroll through those matches here.  That box in the corner there opens your message center, and then that little head opens your profile,” she explained, clicking on the icon in question.  “You should probably look it over, see if anything needs changing.”

Greg took the phone and started scrolling through what she had written.  “I’m a little disturbed at how well you know me.  @DetectiveDreamboat? Really? And are those photos from my Facebook?”

“A guv holds no secrets for a good bagman, Boss.”

Greg was prevented from responding by the mobile chiming in his hand.  He looked down to see the message box had turned red with a little white 1 in the middle.

“Result! Knew you’d be popular. Click on it.”

Greg did, opening an inbox telling him he had a message from @FancyFrank50.  Curiosity getting the better of him he clicked on it and a chat screen appeared with a single chat bubble reading ‘hey nice pix ;P’. He glanced over to Sally who shrugged.

“It wasn’t a dick pic, so I’d call that a win.  Baby steps, Sir.”

Greg looked back down at the three words which represented modern dating and sighed. “Baby steps.”

 

They were on their way back from a crime scene later that week and had been stuck in traffic on the Westway for what seemed like hours.  Sally could tell from his fidgeting that Greg was getting seriously frustrated with the gridlock.  If she wanted to avoid an appearance by DI Road Rage she needed a distraction.

“So how’s the dating going, Sir?  Hit it off with Mr. Nice Pix?”

Greg chuckled.  “No, not so much.  I have been chatting to someone, though.  Her name’s Sandra and she works for one of the airlines.  Likes The Clash.  I thought I might ask her if she fancied meeting up for coffee next week.”

“At which point you’ll discover Sandra is actually a plumber named Roger from Slough.”

“Hey, as long as he likes early punk rock, we’re alright.”

Sally laughed. “Glad that it’s working out.”

“You were right.  It isn’t all that different from dating face to face.  Easier even.  You message someone, and they message you back or not.  No working up your courage only to get the blow off.  Really, online dating is the way to go.”

 

"How the fuck do you delete a dating profile?”

“And good morning to you too, Sir.” Sally greeted him, unwinding her scarf as she took his visitor’s chair.  When she arrived that morning she hadn’t even had the chance to take off her coat before she was been summoned into the DI’s office for a closed-door meeting.

“I’m serious, Sal," Greg said with a face like thunder.  “I need my profile gone and the app off my phone.”

“Things with what’s her face go south after you met in real life?”

“Didn’t even get that far.  I had just suggested meeting up when I started getting all these strange messages.  Explicit messages.”

“She sexted you?”

Greg shook his head.  “Not her, but all sorts of other people. It’s been fucking constant.  Had to turn off notifications on my phone.  And as if the unsolicited amature porn wasn’t enough,  the messages started getting really kinky, too.  I worked vice for years - I thought nothing phased me any more but Christ was I ever wrong.  I don’t know what happened, but I’m not comfortable with this anymore.  I don’t want my info out there for people to perve over without my consent like that.”

Sally picked Greg’s phone up off the desk and swiped into the app’s messaging centre. A quick scan of the subject lines of the hundreds of unanswered messages was enough to make her exit out double quick and set about deleting Greg’s profile.  “I’ve removed you from the app and the app from the phone,”  she promised, handing it back.  “You also might  want to bleach it or something. I’ve had some crap experiences but nothing like that.  I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Greg sighed.  “Think it was a sign.  I should stick to meeting people the old fashioned way is all.”

Sally lay a comforting hand on her boss’s shoulder.  “Look on the bright side, Sir; at least then you can have them up on charges if they show you their dicks without permission.”


	2. Four Weeks ‘till Valentine's Day

A few days after the internet dating debacle, Greg was taking a break from reviewing forensic reports to have a coffee and some Jaffa cakes when Sally burst into his office, triumphantly branshing a hot pink sheet of paper.

“The solution to your dating quandary is at hand, Sir,” she declared, slamming the fuschia flyer down next to where he had propped his feet up on his desk.  Stuffing the last of his Jaffa cakes in his mouth he made a grabby gesture with his freed hand until Sally passed him the page with a put-upon huff.

“Speed dating?” Greg remarked skeptically around a mouthful of biscuit.

“Now hear me out,” Sally insisted, perching on the desk beside his feet.

“It’s got hearts all over it.”

“It’s festive. Besides, speed dating has all the things you liked about internet dating, but without the cock shots.  Hopefully.”

“Seems kind of impersonal. I mean, how much can you get to know someone in five minutes?”

“You’re just deciding if you’d maybe like to grab a coffee with them sometime, not proposing.  You can’t decide if you might be attracted to someone in under five minutes?”

Greg hummed, still skeptical, but Sally could tell she was winning him over.  “You know, as in so much of the dating market, the quality of men this sort of thing attracts is, shall we say, sadly lacking.  You, Sir, will be the hottest commodity there by a long shot.  What have you got to loose?”

 

Greg still couldn’t believe Sally had talked him into this, yet here he was in a chain pub in Hammersmith, giving up his Friday night for a speed dating event. He glanced anxiously around the surprisingly full private room and resisted the urge to adjust his nametag yet again.  Sally had been right, though - the other blokes looked a decidedly underwhelming lot.  The only other contender was a tall, dark and broody type loitering in the corner who looked vaguely familiar.  Maybe Greg had arrested him?  God, he hoped not.

Before he could get any further in placing the man, the organizer rang her little bell and launched into her introduction, welcoming them all and explaining the rules for the evening.  The practicalities out of the way she invited everyone to take a seat at the table for two matching the number on their nametag and wished them luck.  Greg quickly found table four, and noticed mystery bloke was seated next to him at number three.  Greg was sure he knew him.  He snuck a quick glance at his nametag,  but it was no help as he couldn’t think of anyone he knew named Basil Sigerson.  He was just trying to picture the man without his full, hipster beard when his attention was drawn back to his own table by the arrival of his first partner.  Greg gave her a broad smile and let the charm offensive begin.

 

The rest of the event passed in a surprisingly pleasant blur.  While he naturally wasn’t attracted to every woman he chatted to over the course of the evening, there were definitely two or three he would like to get to know better and the rest had been pleasant enough to converse with for a bit.  By the end he was feeling really positive about how things had gone, and was sure he’d be lucky enough to get one or two sets of contact details.  He certainly appeared to be faring better than Mr. Sigerson who seemed to leave behind him a very peeved looking woman every time he swapped tables.  Greg dropped his form off with the organizers and headed out, pausing just outside to check his messages.  He was in the midst of responding to an inquiry from Sally about how things had gone when a few of the women from the event stepped out of the pub.  He smiled and wished them a good night, but instead of returning his friendly farewell they all shot him clear looks of frightened disgust, hurrying in a tight gaggle in the direction of the tube while casting anxious glances behind them as if to check he wasn’t following them.   It was not a reaction to which Greg was accustomed, and certainly not one he was expecting from women with whom he had spent five enjoyable minutes talking.  Had he really misread his interactions tonight that much?  They were just one group, though, he rationalized.  He wouldn’t write the evening off until the organizers emailed him on Monday.

Greg finished his message to Sally and set off for the tube station himself, passing Sigerson who was getting into a cab that had just pulled up.

“Goodnight, Lestrade.”

He turned back sharply at the almost familiar voice speaking his name, but the cab was already pulling away from the kerb.

 

Greg was summoned to the scene of a murder on Sunday, which had rapidly become two, and he had given in and called Sherlock immediately after number three was discovered.  He was standing at the tape of the most recent incident with Sally, listening to her gripe while Sherlock did his thing, when the email from the speed dating people pinged into his inbox.  Seizing on it as a way to distract his malcontented sergeant he opened it immediately.  He read it, then read it again, unable to believe what he was seeing.

“Well?” Sally prompted. “How many charming single women want to see you again?”

“Erm, none.”

She patted him sympathetically on the arm.  “Better luck next time then.”

“There won’t be a next time,” he declared.

“So it didn’t work out this time, that’s no reason to give up on the whole concept.”

“No, apparently I’m not welcome back.”

“What?” Sally grabbed the phone from his hand and read the email for herself.  “...in consideration of the wellbeing of our other attendees we must respectfully inform you that you are hereby barred from our future events.”

“I particularly enjoyed the line about ‘we believe a more specialized organization would be better able to cater to your unique tastes’.”

Sally look back at him in horror.  “What the fuck did you do, Sir?”

“Nothing!” Greg insisted.  “I was a perfect gentleman.”

“Lestrade!” His examination of the scene evidently complete, Sherlock was striding towards him, coat flapping. “Really, if you weren’t obsessing over your so called love lives even you lot could have solved this one.”

“Oi!  I’m not obsessed with-”

“It was the brother.  Obviously.”

“The brother? But Sherlock -”

“This was a three.”

“Sherlock -”

“Maybe a four if I’m generous.”

“Sherlock!” Greg broke in at last.  “He didn’t have a brother. None of them did.  They were only children.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a moment while the facts rearranged themselves in his head, then suddenly he was smiling in that manic way which meant Greg was going to be fishing him out of the Thames or chasing after homicidal cabbies.

“Oh. OH!” Holmes exclaimed, clapping his hands together in all out glee.  “This is - I take it back.  This is at least an eight!  The brother!”  In a whirl of Belstaff he was bounding off, pulling out his mobile and commencing to text frantically as he went.  

“Well, that was helpful,” Sally snorted.  “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Just, go sort out the SOCOs for me, yeah?” Greg ordered, scrubbing a hand roughly though his hair. While Sally started rounding up the scene of crime folks, Greg debated his course of action.  Investigate the decedents’ families he supposed.  Would have been nice if Sherlock had given him a bit more to go on.  Of all the days for Sherlock to be a shit.  At that moment his mobile chimed with two incoming texts in quick succession.

“Some advice - SH”

Finally!

“I’d lay off the speed dating - SH”

He was going to murder the git.


	3. Three Weeks ‘till Valentine's Day

Prat though he was, Sherlock was certainly good for their solve rate and a case which, Greg wasn’t too proud to admit,  would have taken his team ages to piece together was solved by week’s end thanks to the consulting detective.  As a result they had more than just the fact that it was the weekend to celebrate when everyone decamped to the The Clarence at five on Friday for a bit of a piss-up.  They were well into the messy part of the evening and Sally was at the bar with him to help carry the next round back to their table when she nudged him in the side.

“Look sharp, Sir.  Someone’s giving you the glad eye.”

Greg looked in the direction in which his DS had nodded and was just in time to catch the eye of a lean, smartly dressed blond who had been giving him a very frank once over.  He smiled coyly at him around the rim of his cocktail before turning back to his friends.

“Go on,” Sally elbowed him again.  “You’re well in there.  I can manage the drinks."

Greg glanced back over at the man.  He was certainly his type - all long lines, glossy style and coy charm.

“Go,” Sally commanded with a shove before he could start to second guess himself.  “Turn on the old Lestrade charm and he won’t know what’s hit him.”

“Right,” he could do this. “Right. Thanks, Sal.”  Running a hand over his hair and giving himself a quick breath check he started working his way around the bar.   He used to be good at this, he reminded himself.  Greg Lestrade was a smooth operator.  Just be interested and respectful, and open to having some fun.  He slid up to the bar next to the blond and when he turned Greg smiled his patented pulling smile. “Hi, I’m Greg.”

If the look the man gave him was anything to go by, that smile had lost none of its effectiveness during its near twenty year hiatus.  “I’m Tony”

“Lovely to meet you, Tony.  Can I buy you a drink? ”

 

Greg had forgotten how much he enjoyed this.  Getting to know someone new,  the fizz of delightful possibility underneath.  Tony was witty, charming and easy to talk to.  Recently out of a long term relationship as well, a little younger than Greg, owned a shnauzzer and liked crosswords.   Greg would be happy to have the chance to see him again, to talk more, do more than talk, even.  It was looking like that might perhaps happen tonight.  Tony’s friends had left a good hour back but he had stayed on.  They’d shifted to a table, and he had been getting more and more tactile,  leaning into Greg’s space, resting fleeting hands on his arm, then his hand, then his thigh.  Greg was finishing up a story about the time he had to go through a whole shift back when he was on the beat in a uniform two sizes too small due to a mix-up at the cleaners  when the bell rang for time.

“You know,” Tony purred, leaning in to speak softly in his ear in a way that subtly brushed his firm, warm chest against Greg’s arm, “I have one of those Nespresso machines.  Fancy coming back to mine for a coffee?”

Greg almost crowed to himself while outwardly playing it cool. “That sounds great, Tony.  Just let me settle up the tab and we can get out of here, yeah?”

“Hurry back,” he said with a wink, swirling his still half-full drink and Greg was nearly stumbling over himself in his haste to the get to the till.

After taking his turn with the card machine he decided to nip into the toilets to quickly freshen up, popping a mint from the vending machine and then deciding it was better to be prepared and going back for a condom.  “You can do this, Greg my lad”  he said to himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. Christ, had he always been this nervous when he pulled?  He was ready for this.  They would go back to lovely, luscious Tony’s.  There would hopefully be some heavy snogging.  He wasn’t sure he was ready for more, not this soon.   But then again, they might really connect.  And it had been a really long time time since he last had enjoyed the pleasures of another cock.  If he kept hiding in the loos, however, it wasn’t going to matter as nothing was going to happen.  Taking a deep breath he left the gents’, shooting the remaining clutch of now very inebriated coppers a parting wave as he passed, ignoring their raucous shouts of encouragement, including a rather impressive wolf-whistle from Sally.  A sleek, brown haired woman was just slipping out of his seat opposite Tony as he rounded the bar.  There was something familiar about her, though her back was to him - one of Tony’s friends from earlier, he supposed.  She had disappeared into the last call crowd before he got to the table so he was spared having to remember her name.

“So, coffee?”

In reply Greg was shocked to find himself covered in in the not insubstantial remains of a gin and slimline tonic.  All too belatedly he realized Tony was glaring at him with the kind of scorn he usually only saw directed towards him in the interview room.

“How dare you,” he spat at him, snatching up his phone and coat.   “You’re disgusting. You should be fucking ashamed of yourself.  I hope you rot.”

Greg was left staring bewilderedly after Tony as he pushed his way out of the bar, cold drops of G&T slipping down his face and off his nose.  There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to see his sergeant holding out a handful of napkins to him.

“Let's get you a cab, yeah?”

He let himself be dragged out of the bar and stood mutely while Sally flagged him down a taxi, mopping at his sodden face and hair and wondering fruitlessly about what the hell he had done to earn that violent a reaction.  How had he gone from Tony being enthusiastic enough to invite him home to angry enough to dump his drink on him in the space of the less than five minutes he was away from the table?

“Cab, boss,”  Sally said at his elbow, pulling him out of his thoughts. He managed a wan smile and a thank you as he slid into the back seat.  She closed the door and waved him off as the car pulled into traffic, right behind a sleek black sedan which had been lingering across the street.


	4. Two Weeks ‘till Valentine's Day

The team had mostly recovered from their hangovers by Monday, which was just as well as they still had all the paperwork from their newly closed case to finish.  Greg had come in early to get a head start on it,  and after a few hours of non stop slogging he was in desperate need of a break.  

He was just scooping the teabag out of his mug when Sally came into the breakroom chatting to a woman he didn’t recognize.  She was smartly attired for a detective,  her sensible pantsuit well cut and the severity of its black off-set by a ruffled blouse in a bright green that complimented her eyes.  She wore her auburn hair loose and it hung in glossy waves past her shoulder.  She was sharp-featured with an aquiline nose, likely in her late thirties, and radiated a quiet confidence that Greg couldn’t help but find distractingly appealing.

“Boss!  Perfect timing. I’m giving  DS Wright here the grand tour - she’s just started in Fraud.”

“And here I thought you were skiving, Sal.” He held out his hand with a smile. “Greg Lestrade, pleased to meet you DS Wright”

“Cath, please,” she insisted, taking his hand.  She had a lovely smile, Greg thought.

“That’s hardly a local accent,” he commented, shifting with them towards the coffee maker.

She laughed, a rich, earthy sound.  “Hardly.  Liverpool born and bred, me.   First time I’ve lived outside spitting distance of the Mersey, actually.”

“A proper scouser!  What brought you down here?  Finally realized how shite your football was?” Greg suggested cheekily.

Rather than taking offence, his impertinence was rewarded with another of those sexy laughs.  “Right - fourth in the league, utter rubbish.  You’re not a Blues supporter, are you?”

Greg clutched at his heart dramatically.  “You wound me.  Associate with that load of tossers?  Gunners all the way.  And you call yourself a detective.”

“Before this degenerates into sport based mud-slinging,” Sally interrupted, “Cath, how do you take your coffee?”

“Oh black, ta.”  Sally handed her one of the chipped Ikea mugs they had for guests and she took a grateful sip.  “In all seriousness,  it’s been hard leaving Liverpool,  but Merseyside isn’t that big a force.  If I want to get on, and I do,  I needed to look farther afield.  The chance to work with the Met was just too good to pass up.”

“Must be hard on the family?” Greg asked, not without ulterior motive.

“It’s been a wrench to be away from my Mum and my sister’s family,”  Cath acknowledged. “But being free to make a big move like this is one of the advantages of being single, I suppose.”

Well that was that question answered.  And going by the wry little smile she shot him she knew exactly what he had been driving at.  Suddenly catching sight of the time on the breakroom microwave he swore. “Sorry, need to get back - CPS is arriving in five.   Enjoy the rest of your tour, ladies.   Cath, was lovely to meet you.   Sure we’ll see you around, yeah.”

“Definitely,”  Cath replied with a suggestive smile that had him grinning all the way to his office.

 

Greg found himself bumping into the charming DS Wright frequently over the next couple of days. They would smile at each other and say a quick hello when they passed in the halls,  or chat in the lift. Turned out they were both smokers,  though both trying to quit,  so they met up quite frequently in the doorway round the back of the building which the Yarders had claimed as their unofficial smoking area.

“Makes me feel like a teenager again,” Greg commented one cig break.  “Sneaking a fag behind the bikeshed.  Keep expecting the Chief Super to come round the corner and give me detention.”  

“Smoking the only thing you got up to behind the bikeshed?”  Cath asked him coyly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”  It was the opening Greg had been waiting for.  He’d thought Cath was attractive from the get-go,  but thanks to their smoke break flirting he had learned she was also a dedicated detective,  whip smart,  and had a raunchy sense of humour.   He was more than a little smitten, and it was clear she fancied him, too.  “I was thinking, if you wanted,  maybe I could take you out for dinner on Saturday? Seeing as you’re new in town and all.”

“Purely as a gesture of goodwill?”  She responded archly,  butting her cigarette out thoroughly against the wall before tucking it back in the packet.

“Naturally.”

“Alright then, it’s a date.”

 

Greg made reservations at a great tapas place he knew near the Old Vic, and they’d agreed to meet at Southwark tube station and walk over together.  As the weekend drew nearer, Greg was feeling increasingly excited about their date.  He and Cath clearly liked each other.  They had a great chemistry.   He couldn’t imagine their dinner wouldn’t go well, they had so much in common.

It was getting on two on Friday when his mobile rang.  He was surprised to see that it was Cath.  They had been texting a bit, but as of yet she hadn’t called him.

“Alright, Cath?”  He answered with some trepidation.

“Greg, hi.  Have you got a minute to talk?”

He may have been out of practice with dating,  but Greg knew the start of a brush off conversation when he heard one. “You’re cancelling?”

“I am so, so sorry.  Really.”

It was silly, to feel so hurt;  they hadn’t even had their first date.  Still, he couldn’t help mourning the lost potential he had felt in their relationship. “Is it something I did?”

“No,” she insisted hastily. “No, it’s not you.  I’m going back to Liverpool. They called this morning and offered me a post in CID in Merseyside.  A promotion - DI.  I start Monday.”

“What, this Monday?”  He scoffed, disbelieving.  “Seems pretty sudden.”

“I know, I know, it is.   But it’s the job I’ve always wanted - I’m absolutely made up.” Cath couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice as she discussed her dream post.  “I can’t pass this up.  One of their team leaders just quit - dinosaur should have gone years ago, thought he would die in harness.  Said they wanted someone who could bring a fresh perspective, yet who knew the force and the community and could hit the ground running.  I mean, it’s a bit irregular to give me first refusal like that,  but they’re in the middle of a massive investigation so it was all conditional on me starting right away. I really am sorry, Greg.”

He sighed.  “I get it, I do.  I’m disappointed to be missing out on our date,  but I am happy for you.”

“Thanks,” she said softly.  “If it’s any consolation I was really looking forward to dinner.  You’re a great guy, Greg.  Any girl would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks, Cath.  Look, you take care, alright?  Best of luck.”

“You, too.  Look us up if ever you’re in Liverpool, ay?”

As he disconnected,  the weekend now looming empty before him,  Greg could see only one silver lining - there was nothing standing in the way of him getting thoroughly, comprehensively pissed tonight.


	5. One Week ‘till Valentine's Day

“Yer problem,”  Sally slurred in a corner booth of the Silver Cross that evening, well into their 5th (or was it 6th?) round.  “Yer problem, is accountability.”

“Howzat?”  Greg was pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to follow Sally’s logic even sober.

“Y’invite these people out, but you don’t know them, not really, and they don’t know you.  They don’t know what a great guy they're passing up.  The best guy.  So they flake.”

“Or throw a drink in my face,  or move to Liverpool.”

Sally waved off his objections with an uncoordinated hand.  “What you need is someone to vouch for you.”

“Sally, no.”

“Yes, Boss.   Lemme set you up.   I know just the guy.  He’s amazing - a doctor.  A paedia-, paedi- a kid’s doctor.”

“Sal, I’m not gonna go on a blind date with your gay doctor friend.”

“Did I mention he’s hot?  And he’s single right now,  but he never is for long,  so you gotta act soon.”

“No, Sal.  No set-ups.  They’re awkward, and embarrassing, and if - when - things go tits-up the friend who introduced you gets caught in the middle.”

She collapsed against his shoulder and gave a dramatic huff.  Maybe they were on their 7th round, now that he thought about it.  “I just wanna see you happy, Greg," she mumbled forlornly,  “You’ve had shit luck.  You’re a great guy and you deserve better.”

Sally was being nice.  Sally was never nice.   Greg could feel himself giving in.  “So he’s hot?”

Sensing victory within her grasp Sally scrabbled through her handbag for her phone.  Hastily she flipped through Facebook and turned it triumphantly towards Greg when she found the right profile.

“This is Franco,” she said, triumphantly.  “Did I mention he paid for uni by working as an underwear model?”

Ok, Greg conceded as he stared at the picture of masculine perfection displayed on the screen, maybe set-ups weren’t an entirely bad idea.

 

Sally had wanted to message Franco right away,  but Greg still had enough sense to realise they were both far too pissed for that to end well.  As he lay in front of the footie next afternoon nursing his hangover, Greg began to have second thoughts.  What was a young, fit, clever, compassionate guy going to want with a sad, divorced, ordinary old copper like him?

“It’s not like you to sell yourself short, Boss.” Sally replied when he rang her up to tell her as much and cancel the whole damn thing.  “Franco certainly doesn’t agree.”

“What?”

“I contacted him this morning.   Sent him your picture.  Told him all about you.  He’s very interested.”

“You’re having me on.”

“Not at all.  He thinks you’re quite the silver fox.   And the detective thing is pretty sexy.  Throw in the the great sense of humour and caring nature, and he was sold.   Wants to know if you’d be free sometime this week for dinner.”

“Should bump you back to uniform,” he grumbled.

“You’re welcome.  I expect to be a bridesmaid.”

“Piss off.”

 

Eight pm Wednesday night found him sitting alone in a trendy-but-not-too-trendy sushi restaurant in Fitzrovia, doing his best not to finish the bottle of Asahi he had ordered before his date even arrived.  If he arrived.  At least thanks to modern technology they knew what the other looked like,  no awkward messing around with books and red roses or what have you.

Greg was just debating whether or not to check his phone yet again when he saw Franco step into the restaurant.   Feeling like a bit of a prat he gave a nervous little wave,  but when Franco saw him his face lit up. Greg couldn’t help but notice a few heads turn in his direction as he strode across the room towards their table.  Greg scrambled to stand as he approached.

“Greg, fantastic to finally meet you,” he greeted him warmly. “Sally has told me so much about you.”

“Uh, likewise.” Greg managed to reply as his hand was engulfed in a warm, strong handshake. They took their seats and occupied themselves with the business of ordering.  Over the usual pleasantries Greg repeatedly caught himself staring at the adonis who had miraculously agreed to be his date for the evening.  He was possibly the most gorgeous person he had met in real life, with curling dark hair worn in a shaggy cut which managed to look tousled rather than messy; sharp, square jaw; bronzed skin and deep, dark soulful eyes.  He was dressed more casually than Greg in jeans and a blazer over a tight t-shirt which only accented his taut, sculpted physique, but it made him seem relaxed rather than slobby.  This late in the day there was a shadow of stubble emphasizing the cut of his cheeks, and Greg couldn’t help wondering what it might feel like scratching against his skin.

As their waiter departed with their order Franco gestured to the phone he had left out next to his plate and asked: “I hope you don’t mind? It’s my day off, but I try and be available for consultations when I can.”

“Hey, copper.  Totally get it.  Sally said you were a paediatrician?”

“Paediatric surgeon, yeah.  It’s intense, but I love it.  You couldn’t ask for more amazing patients - the kids are what keep me going, you know?”

Throughout their appetizers they chatted about Franco’s experiences on the paediatric ward, how he had been inspired to become a doctor by his own sister’s chronic illness as a child.  He also spoke about the weeks of volunteer work he did annually at a clinic in South America. “But enough about me,” he insisted as their main course was placed before them.  “I hear you’re a pretty amazing detective.   Must be fascinating.”

“It’s not as glamorous as people think.” Greg demurred, tucking into his sashimi.  “It’s mostly paperwork, to be honest.  And it can be pretty tough emotionally and psychologically;  we see humanity at its worst.”

 “But something must keep you going?”

Greg thought for a moment.  “The desire for justice, I suppose.   There’s satisfaction in knowing that you are helping to protect people.  Even if it's too late,  even if the damage has been done, making sure whoever is responsible pays for what they’ve done.  It’s made me push too much sometimes;  I’d never do anything illegal or immoral, but I’m not afraid of using every tool at my disposal to solve a case, even if it might not be strictly regulation.”

“You mean Sherlock Holmes.  Sally’s not a fan.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Is he really that bad?”

“Oh, he’s an utter cock, but he’s a genius.  There was this one case involving a rare Indonesian rodent…” and with that Greg launched into his well-practiced rendition of Sherlock’s greatest hits.  By the time their dishes were being cleared away they were both in stitches, and getting dirty looks from the tables around them.

“Can I just say,” Franco said as he caught his breath, “ How glad I am that you agreed to come out tonight.  I thought you were gorgeous the moment Sally showed me your photo - you have the most amazing smile - and I know it's pretty forward of me, this being a first date and all, but I was wondering-”

Whatever he was going to suggest was cut off by the incessant ringing of his mobile.  He glanced at the call display and frowned.  “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”

“Yeah, of course,” Greg replied, still reeling from Franco’s words.  He thought Greg was attractive.  He fancied Greg.  He, if Greg wasn’t totally off the mark, was about to invite him back to the doubtlessly terribly swish modernist loft he probably called home for what would hopefully be some incredibly hot sex.  Greg was pulled out of his steamy revery by the increasingly agitated tone of the hushed phone conversation across from him.

“I don’t know who you are or how you got this number,” Franco was muttering into the handset, “but whatever you think- You can’t possibly-”  As Greg watched his face blanched and he reached out to the table for support. “You have no proof.  None,” he hissed urgently. Suddenly he glanced over at Greg. “But surely - No, no please don’t.  I understand.   No,  thank you.  Yes.  Of course not.”

“Is everything alright?” Greg asked Franco hesitantly as he disconnected and hung his head in his hands.  He didn’t immediately reply, but then stood up abruptly from the table.

“Look, Greg, this was a bad idea,” he said in a poor imitation of his normal carefree tone as he pulled out his wallet and dropped far more than enough to cover their meal on the table.  “I don’t see that this is going anywhere.  So.  Sorry.” And with that he practically sprinted from the room, leaving Greg to stare after him in shock.

 

Once he had gathered his wits Greg beat his own hasty retreat,  but only went as far as the pub on the corner.  Settled into one end of the bar with a double scotch he put his mind to the mystery of his dating life, because something was definitely up.  This went far beyond shitty luck or a lack of practice.  As the level of his drink sank lower and lower, the pieces began to come together, and by the time it was empty he was pretty sure what was going on.  And he couldn’t be happier.  He had some planning to do.


	6. February 14

It was a Wednesday night like any other as far as Mycroft Holmes was concerned.   Something as frivolous as a  spurious holiday created to increase the sales of chocolates and greeting cards certainly had no impact on the rhythms of international affairs.  Granted, Anthea had asked for the evening off,  but she had a tendency towards sentimentality which was less than ideal.  As reluctant as he had been to accede to her request he had, as she pointed out with unnecessary American hyperbole, owed her ‘big time’.  He had therefore opted to work from home that evening and was making good headway on the latest intelligence reports from China when he was startled by the sound of his doorbell.  Flipping over to the entryway camera on his laptop he was surprised to see the handsome face of DI Lestrade peering back at him.

“Inspector?”

“Open the door, Mycroft.  You and I need to have a little chat.”

Ah.  For a moment Mycroft considered refusing him entry.  But knowing how determined the DI could be, he would doubtless cause a scene on the doorstep and have to be removed by security, and Mycroft couldn’t have that.  Reluctantly he buzzed the detective in, and took the few moments it would take for him to reach the flat to compose himself.  He was Mycroft Holmes;  he had faced down world leaders and homicidal madmen without breaking a sweat - surely he could handle one irate DI? The Inspector’s knock echoed loudly and Mycroft made sure to wait a moment before opening the door.

“Lestrade,” he greeted him with a haughty nod of the head. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure?”

“I think you bloody well know.  You going to let me in?”

“I assure you, I have no idea to what you are referring,” he insisted, even as he stepped aside to let Lestrade through.  As he passed, Mycroft noted that he was wearing cologne and the cool blue dress shirt which brought out the warmth in his skin tone.  Evidently he had a date later.  Well, it was to be expected, perhaps.  While he himself held no store in something as contrived as Valentine’s Day, it was precisely the sort of occasion the warm-hearted detective would mark. Mycroft trailed him into the sitting room where he had come to rest, standing in the middle of the space with his arms crossed and his gaze disapproving.

“I’m not an idiot, Mycroft.  I may not be a Holmes, but I’m not an idiot.  It took me a while to put it all together, an embarrassing while in hindsight,  but I got there in the end. You’ve been sabotaging my attempts at dating.”

“I beg your pardon!” The eddies of uncertainty were now a tsunami of unease.

“Dunno how you hacked that dating website, but I can imagine you have no shortage of people on the payroll capable of it.  And what did you have to promise Sherlock to get him to interfere at the speed dating?  No, never mind.  The arse was probably happy to do it for the chance to play dress up and insult me.”

“Really, Inspector.  You do have the most active imagination,” Mycroft blustered to cover his mounting panic.  He was ruined.  Any amicable relationship he had heretofore had with the DI, slight as it was, would be destroyed forever.  The one bright spark of human tenderness in the frozen tundra of his existence would be snuffed out because he had broken his most cherished tenets and allowed his emotions to irrationally guide his actions.

“Sending Anthea to badmouth me at the bar was a bit unsubtle, but I rather suspect I would never have caught even a glimpse of her if she hadn’t wanted me to.  She’s a good egg that one, if terrifying.  Arranging the promotion for DS Wright was heavy handed, however everyone benefits from that one so I’ll let it go. But what the fuck did you say to poor Franco? He looked ready to pass out.”

“He was smuggling large quantities of drugs under the cover of his humanitarian work.” Mycroft admitted despondently, there being no point in further obfuscation.

“Oh.  Well.  Ta for the intervention, then.  We should probably still do something about that, even if he did cut things off with me sharpish.”

“He will be stopped at the border should he attempt it again, which is doubtful.  Detective Lestrade,  I cannot begin to apologize enough.  My actions, in retrospect, were a blatant abuse of my power.  I had no cause or right to behave as I did.  My conduct cannot be excused. I can only offer my most heartfelt apologies and the assurance that your personal life shall remain free of my interventions in future, save in cases of imminent peril to life and limb.”

“Too damn right you overstepped,” Greg scolded.  “You’re a grown up, Mycroft.  If you like someone, you don’t play games.  Hard as it is, the mature thing to do is to just tell them so.  And to that end:  I like you, Mycroft.  Alot.”

“You cannot mean it,” he protested faintly. It was impossible.  It was Mycroft’s most cherished desire, one he could scarcely admit to himself, one which he had always cloaked in terms of protectiveness for a useful resource or respect for a more than averagely competent associate.  He was cold and awkward and inexperienced with healthy interpersonal relationships, not to mention plain and balding and still a good stone off his ideal weight.  How could a man as perfect, as genuinely good as Greg Lestrade hold him in anything but contempt?

“I do mean it,”  Lestrade insisted, moving into Mycroft’s space, close enough that he could feel the animal heat of the man and be surrounded by the scent of his high street cologne, which upon his skin was transformed from something mundane into the headdiest of perfumes.  “I fancy you rotten, Mycroft.  Have for ages. Assumed you had spotted it and were just politely ignoring it, but forgot to account for the fact that Holmeses are terrible at feelings.  Fortunately I find omnipotence, abuse of authority and shocking displays of power more than a little sexy.”

“Oh,”  Mycroft breathed, finally allowing himself to really look, to see the signs of attraction and desire - desire for him! - which the detective was so clearly displaying and not dismiss them as projections of his own wishes. “I like you as well, Gregory.  A very great deal.  But you must know I have no notion where to begin, not in the sort of relationship you desire. That I desire with you.”

“Sweetheart,” Mycroft shivered at the softly murmured endearment, at the feel of his hands being taken in Greg’s own. “How’s about this: We start with dinner this evening - a quiet meal for two at the most romantic Italian restaurant I know. You’ll easily deduce my favourites and pick the most amazing bottle of wine to go with them.  We can talk properly, our hands resting entwined on the table, and you can impress me as you always do with your amazing mind and your dry wit. I’ll be spellbound, watching the candlelight dance in your eyes and making your creamy skin glow.  We can split a Tiramisù and then walk it off with a stroll by the river.  It’ll be cold, though, so you’ll have to press in close.  After that, it’s all up to you. That sound good, Mycroft?”  

Mycroft could only nod, lost as he was in the warmth of Greg’s gaze and the wondrous fantasy he had conjured.

“You have to answer a question for me first, though.”

“Anything,” he breathed.  And it was shocking how true that was.  He would give Greg the world.

“Will you, Mycroft Holmes, be my Valentine?”

“Only if you will be mine, my dearest.”

Greg’s face lit with the brightest of smiles, and Mycroft was certain he could never know a greater joy. “May I kiss you, Valentine?”

As Greg’s warm lips brushed his for what would surely be the first of countless times, Mycroft realized he was wrong.  This, this moment was perfect happiness.


End file.
